Blood is thicker than water. Sticks and stones . . .
Billows surge—higher than our old home—and pummel still
taller rocks. Big sister, a single text in two years between us—
I stopped the words to hush the sister angst—so it seemed.
Christmas comes and the chasm taunts again. Farther down
the shore a tide pool stillness suspends my circling thoughts. Wait.
Then steely sprays of high tide wreck the silence—You, sister
reappear. I long—I think, my fault—if only I . . . but dark relics
submerge in a whitecapped sister sea. Despite what our mother said,
blood doesn’t stick—it’s no cement. Typhoon words don’t vanish. I beg
for a bridge over the rage and sound. Hyades—the nymph sisters—
give no answer but transports me to a graceful doe kissing her fawns.
Saplings circle a succoring tree. No need for sister’s voice. I’ll be
Queen Anne’s lace with tender head high adoring her sister’s.
marsh. I hike smooth paths through towering berry bushes—sisters
on each side—stems so needled. I pluck fruit sweet and tart—
sustenance—memories of us sisters picking fruit at Mother’s side.
Blood Red Bricks
We see things not as they are but as we are.
Anais Nin
A wall mortared tight, barring
any sense of self or agency.
A deep well of water—once
a sisterhood now toxins
turn it poisonous. Or call it
wounds from a common mother,
still crying out for salve and bandage.
That small tin box painted with
a red cross we would both finger as if
rattling Band-Aids were sufficient
remedy. God, stitch up these jagged
cuts in us both, and between us.
Is there a jackhammer powerful enough
to fracture my strange sense of you
and you of me? What bloody red, impenetrable
bricks forestall elusive peace.
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